


Drink to Remember, Drink to Forget

by Rumpabumbum



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consequences, Drinking, Jon/Sansa are not in love, Multi, Smut, This is not a fic where any couple comes out happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-06 01:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11590473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpabumbum/pseuds/Rumpabumbum
Summary: Jon and Sansa's marriage is one for politics, not love. There is no love between them they are haunted by their past relationships and neither is ready to let go. One night of drinking ignites misplaced passion within each of them in attempts to remember and forget their past loves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jon and Sansa are married for the sake of the crown, but they very much still see each other as siblings and are not very comfortable with the new dynamic of their relationship. In the end, neither will fall in love with the other. This is canon-based, after Daenerys has conquered Westeros and the White Walkers have been vanquished. Daenerys gives them the North with the stipulation that their child will rule the Seven Kingdoms after Daenerys dies.
> 
> The first chapter is Jon's perspective, the second is Sansa's, and the third is the consequences of one night.

The wind blistered outside the window. Come the morning, a fresh blanket of snow would layer the ground. For some reason that reminded him of Ygritte. Everything reminded him of Ygritte tonight. He chugged down more ale. When he was out training men and helping Wildings adjust to their new way of life, he didn’t have time to dwell on her. Now, with nothing but snow to distract his mind, all he could do was think about the love he’d lost.

                He remembered holding her as her body turned cold and rigged, where it had once been warm and free. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could convince himself that her taste still lingered on his lips.

                His eyes shot open as echoing footsteps grew closer. He instinctively grabbed for his sword, but it wasn’t on him. The lack of reaction from Ghost let him know whoever it was, was on friendly terms with him, at the least. He looked up in time to see Sansa enter the room. She was still wearing her day dress. He couldn’t blame her. The cold made wearing anything less than furs near impossible, particularly in rooms that did not have furnaces.

                “Sansa. I thought you had gone to bed,” he mumbled.

                “I thought the same of you, your grace,” she slurred. So she’d been drinking as well. The phrase ‘your grace’ still sounded strange coming from her mouth. Not Jon, not brother. Though they were never truly brother and sister. Even when he believed Ned Stark was his father, they had never had a typical sibling relationship. And now…they were an amiable husband and wife at best.

                “Don’t call me that,” he said. He almost preferred ‘bastard’ to ‘King in the North’. One day his son would deal with the endless list of names befitting the ruler of all seven kingdoms. That was the reasoning behind Daenerys’s decision to force this marriage. Targaryen and Stark together on the Iron Throne.

                Sansa walked around the room, stopped momentarily behind his chair, then continued came to kneel in front of him. “Perhaps you should come to bed. Our bed.”

                Jon finished his ale. He didn’t recognize the implications of what Sansa had said. “I will. I have work to do.”

                Sansa squeezed his arm. “You have nothing to do,” she hesitated, then trailed her fingers up his arm teasingly, though. “So come do me.”

                It was as if Ygritte had said it. He responded to the thought of Ygritte whispering those words filthily to him.

                Sansa fiddled with the buttons of her cloak. Jon didn’t know what had come over her. In their eight months of marriage, they had shared a bed exactly nine times. The minimum requirement to attempt to produce an heir. He never pushed for more. He never desired more, not with her. Despite their strained relationship growing up, he couldn’t separate her from being his sister.

                But not tonight. Not when her hair, her dress, her words reminded him of Ygritte. He pressed his hand over her hands. “Not here.”

                Sansa accepted and started back for his chambers. When ever they made love it was always there. He found that he preferred the quiet knowledge of only Ghost hearing these activities provided him. As much as he’d grown to admire Brienne of Tarth, he was not comfortable with her presence during such intimate trysts.

                The candles in his room were still lit, but burning low. Her back was turned to him as she began undressing again. He pulled at the laces of his own cloak with slow fingers, a little clumsy from drinking a little too much. Sansa was taller than Ygritte had been, but from behind it was easy to pretend she was there instead of Sansa.

                He yanked his undershirt over his head and unlaced his breeches. Sansa turned back around. Only her smallclothes covered her still. She was a traditional beauty, pale in the candle light. Freckles splattered over her chest.

                His body reacted instantly, his cock hardening as a natural reaction. Her eyes stayed on his as he pulled the shift over her head. She closed the gap between them which left him little time to admire her body. He preferred it that way. He knew what Sansa looked like, but he didn’t want Sansa. The image in his mind was all he needed.

                She pressed against him. Her lips felt soft against his neck. Her hands skimmed down his chest, past his abdomen, and brushed over his cock. Her fingers gently stroked him from root to tip.

                “Harder,” he hissed. He reached out and groped her breasts. He’d learned that the area around Sansa’s nipples gave her even more pleasure than direct stimulation. Even if he held no romantic inclinations toward her, he wanted to make sure she felt good as well.

                Sansa hummed at the touch. She cupped her hand a little tighter and stroked a little faster. More pressure, that’s what he needed. Jon’s hips bucked forward.  Immediately her hand stopped.

                He had lost himself enough in the pleasure he hadn’t realized he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he half expected to find Ygritte’s toothy grin teasing him. Of course it wasn’t. Rather, Sansa sat on the bed, legs spread wide to allure him.

                Her eye lids hooded over in a way that she probably meant to be seductive, but came off as pained and sad. He wondered which of her failed romances she was thinking of. Joffrey. Ramsay. Perhaps there was another.

                An unbidden memory of Ygritte reminiscing on her early lovers sprang in his mind. They had been boys who hadn’t known how to treat her the way she deserved.

                He got on the bed and laid Sansa underneath him. He kissed her chest down to her boobs. As he laved one nipple with his tongue, he massaged the other breast, then switched. The sounds Sansa made were breathier than Ygritte’s. And Ygritte had been a talker. He loved listening to her talk as he explored every inch of her. Her accent would grow thicker until she hardly sounded as though she were speaking Common Tongue anymore.

                His hips formed a rhythm as he wriggled down to her core. The fur felt soft yet coarse against his prick. The feeling of Sansa’s curves against his fingertips substituted nicely for the girl he never wanted to forget. Fingernails dragged against his back, only increasing his desire.

                Reality came back far too soon when Sansa grabbed at his hair. “Jon. Stop,” she panted.

                He snatched himself away from her and got on his knees, straddling her on either side of her legs. “Is there something wrong, Sansa,” he asked, worried he had hurt her or taken things too far. His dick wobbled against his abdomen and he bit back a hiss. He hadn’t realized how painfully hard he’d become.

                Sansa sat up. Her fingers toyed with the curls at the back of his head. She studied his face. Something was off. Her eyes looked as though they were seeing right through him, far in the distance, like looking at a sunset over the horizon and never seeing how far it truly goes. Her lips quivered as though she might cry. Jon touched the side of her cheek. That brought her back.

                “I’m fine. I just don’t want you doing…that.” She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, his neck. She bent down and kissed his chest as his hands roamed down her sides.

                He shut his eyes and he was with Ygritte once more. Here in the castle. He counted the freckles on her back but they were too abundant to count them all.

                When Sansa spoke again, it was Ygritte’s voice he heard and Ygritt’e words. “Fuck me Jon Snow. Show me just how wild you can be.”

                He pushed Sansa down against the mattress and pushed her legs apart. Her hand wrapped around his cock and pulled hard for a few strong strokes. Jon groaned. Sansa moaned softly in response. She muttered a word under her breath but he couldn’t hear it. His mind was too far gone with imagining himself entering Ygritte and the way her mouth would form an o until he filled her.

                Sansa placed him between her thighs and guided his tip to her entrance, which felt slicker than usual. He bucked slid in gently. The heat and pressure surrounding him felt incredible. He made a couple experimental bucks of his hips before Sansa wrapped her legs around him.

                “Harder, faster, harder, faster, Jon! Make me come Jon!” he could hear Ygritte groan. The words uttered so long ago spurred him on.

                He was vaguely aware of Sansa murmuring a word over and over again. Still, he did as the Ygritte in his mind asked.

                Nails dug into his side. Hips pumped to meet his with equal force until he couldn’t hold back anymore and stiffened as he came. He collapsed and moaned, ‘Ygritte,” into Sansa’s shoulder. For just a moment, everything was right. Ygritte was there. No kingly duties, no wars, no politics. Just him, her, and a pile of furs.

                The moment escaped him once Sansa began shifting below him. He snapped out of his dream and pushed himself up on his arms. She was flushed down to her chest and still breathing relatively hard.

                “Did you…” Jon asked.

                Sansa shook her head. “No. I can take care of it myself though.”

                He thought of Ygritte and how much she had enjoyed it when he had kissed her down there. Perhaps Sansa would receive pleasure from it as well. He shimmied down her body and between her legs. He spread them apart and kissed her there. She tasted different than Ygritte, though he couldn’t say how.

                She must have enjoyed it, because she came quickly, grunting the word “Mar” as she did.

                There was never cuddling afterward. There was no interest in it. They did always share the bed though. It would be rude to kick her out.

                He fell asleep quickly, his dreams willed with the Wildling kissed by fire. She took him hunting, took him to mountain tops and swam with him in frozen waters. Cruel dreams.

                When he awoke, the room was dark and the other side of the bed was empty and cold. Sansa was gone. She was likely somewhere in the castle. That gave him enough peace of mind to go back to sleep with the feeble hope that he could once more go back to a time when everything felt right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's PoV

She poured herself another goblet of wine. Arbor gold. She snorted at the irony. Even the wine wanted to torture her memories. She gulped down the wine anyway.

She’d sent off Brienne long ago. Her frowns and worried glances weren’t making it easier to forget. This wine wasn’t either, at least not now.

Whenever Margaery Tyrell forced her way to the forefront of Sansa’s mind, her nights resulted in drinking. Usually the alcohol helped her forget until she was in a cold, deep sleep. Tonight was different. Every swallow intensified her memories of the woman she had loved.

Her brunette waves, her lopsided grin, her delicate arms all invaded Sansa’s mind. She didn’t want to think her. She’d be happier never sparing another thought to her. Remembering her family was painful enough. She didn’t need Margaery to compound it. She wished she had never met Margaery, that way she’d never have fallen for her.

                She’d stepped out of her chambers hoping fresher air would clear her mind. Instead her mind wandered more. Had Margaery ever seen snow? If she had, certainly not as much as was blanketing the grounds below. She could almost picture the sly smile on Margaery’s face, accompanied with an innuendo for the cold.

                Sansa fled down the hall as if she could escape her thoughts. She turned hard around the corner and noticed a dim candle light. She inched further down the hall. Ghost’s blood red eyes blinked open at the creek of the floor board. Jon would be in there.

                Her lord husband. The King in the North, and her the Queen. Whichever phrase people used, her stomach churned.  Years of accepting each other as brother and sister couldn’t be erased with Bran’s proclamation that Jon was actually a Targaryen. Although they were never the closest Starks, she had viewed him as family and therefore loved him as family should. Despite their forced marriage, she could never view him romantically. She doubted he looked upon her that way either.

                He was the opposite of Margaery in nearly every way. Masculine where she had been feminine. Broody where she had been bubbly. Stoic where she had liked to tease.

                He could make her forget. It was likely the alcohol speaking, but right now nothing more appealing than the thought of not having to dwell on her former lover. He could serve as a distraction, if nothing else.

                The world seemed to shift a little as she straightened up and measured out slow yet seductive steps into the room.

                Jon stood at attention, hand reaching for his sword, which was not there. His stance relaxed once he realized whom it was. “Sansa. I thought you had gone to bed,” he murmured. There were still a few feet between them, but the scent of alcohol easily closed the gap.

                She stepped closer. ““I thought the same of you, your grace,” she murmured and batted her eyes. She had never attempted to seduce Jon before. Their previous dalliances had been very much out of duty with little persuasion involved.

                “Don’t call me that,” he growled as he always did when anyone used his title outside of formal settings.

                Sansa ignored his tone. ““Perhaps you should come to bed. _Our bed._ ” She purred the last words, hoping to clarify her intentions.

                If he understood, he didn’t show much desire to join her. He finished his ale and set it back down. “I will. I have work to do.”

                As his eyes moved away from hers, she could almost see them widen into Margaery’s. She couldn’t let him leave her with these thoughts. She grabbed his arm. ““You have nothing to do.” She took a note from Margaery’s arsenal and lightly dragged her fingers down his forearm, feeling goosebumps rise beneath her touch. “So come do me.”

                His eyes darkened with lust. She wasn’t sure what had caused the shift, but she wouldn’t question it. Her fingers clumsily began pushing open the buttons of her cloak. She hadn’t felt so inept at this since Margaery…. She shook the thought from her head. This was to forget. Focus on here and now.

                Jon pressed his hand over hers. She glanced up, meeting his eyes. She felt as though he were looking through her and seeing someone else. “Not here,” he rumbled.

                She stepped around him and walked down the hall. Stiff and formal. Just like she had pretended with Margaery until they were out of the gaze of whichever guard had been on duty. Then it would be playful teasing and laughter.

                The moment she stepped into his chambers she wiped her thoughts clean.  Her fingers were quicker and better controlled now. She swiftly took of her cloak and unlaced the front of her fur dress. His clothes hit the floor behind her. She turned and observed his body. Her eyes were drawn to his cock. It was half erect already. He was thinking of the wildling girl he told her of. Whomever he thought of, she wouldn’t deny him his fantasy as long as he intervened in hers.

                She dragged her eyes up the rest of him. Sparse dark hair covered his chest, failing to conceal scarred stab wounds. His body was well-muscled, the definition of masculine. Nothing like Margaery’s petite breasts, her delicate skin. Any woman in Winterfell should desire him.

                She locked eyes with him and pulled her under shift over her head. She shivered in the chilly air. His candles weren’t enough to keep the chamber warm at this time of night. Taking the lead, she pushed up against her, chest to chest and tilted her head to kiss his neck.

                She tried to focus on the way Jon felt, and not the muscle memory of Margaery’s soft touch, how she somehow knew the right places to touch her. The memories jolted aside at once Sansa brushed her fingers against Jon’s hard cock. The suddenness of it shocked her into biting his neck, though he didn’t flinch.

                She stroked him softly, hardly grasping him. He whimpered then whined, “Harder.” He grabbed at her breasts and massaged them. It wasn’t as good as _she_ would, but it was enough to leave Sansa lusting after her touch. There she was, smirking up at her, proud of her work.

                Her hand moved faster and gripped him tighter, though she wasn’t aware of it. She couldn’t keep fighting this losing battle. It all snapped away as soon as his hips rammed against her, his penis pushing almost painfully against her pelvic bone. Sansa stepped away.

                She positioned herself on the bed, her legs spread wide to show him she was ready, even if it wasn’t him who had driven her to this state. She gave him a sultry look identical to one Margaery would give her when she was trying to seduce her.

                He took his time coming to the bed. Perhaps this is what he had done with his wildling girl, Sansa thought. He readjusted them so that she lay beneath him. She wanted him inside, the sooner the better.

                Instead he kissed her, starting with her chest (oh, how she preferred Margaery’s soft lips to Jon’s scraggly bearded ones). The longer he went, the more her mind substituted Margaery for him. It was Margaery slowly sliding down her body, making her shake with anticipation. Her lips lavished her nipples, underneath her breasts. She had licked her belly button, which felt deliciously filthy. Sansa dug her nails into the back beneath her hands, leaving her mark. The bed rocked at a steady pace, lulling Sansa further into her fantasy.

                He was almost at the place that only Margaery had ever been when a particularly harsh strand of beard scraped against her abdomen. Sansa instinctively grabbed Jon’s hair and tugged. “Jon. Stop.”

                He did so immediately. It reminded her too much of Margaery. She could feel Margaery’s phantom fingers spreading her, her tongue lavishing in the taste of her. She squeezed her eyes tight together willing the memories to leave her alone.

                She barely heard him ask her how she felt. She needed to center herself. She sat up and tangled her fingers around his short curls. It did nothing to free her from the longing for the love she once had and could never have again. When his palm caressed her cheek, she managed to bring herself back to the present.

                 “I’m fine. I just don’t want you doing…that.” She realized how cruel this must be. She was using him in a very intimate way. He didn’t deserve that. Jon was kind and patient. He deserved better. She kissed his neck, his cheek as reassurance. She would never bring herself to kiss his lips though.

                She gripped his cock and murmured. “Fuck me Jon.”  A couple of pumps and he had her pushed back against the bed again. He had never been this aggressive before. He had her pinned down as he growled in her ear and moaned as he entered her. She groaned in response. “Gods,” she murmured.

                He pumped his hips fast. This was what she needed. Something Margaery could never give her. She wrapped her legs around him. It was easier now to only think of him. He felt good. She arched her back and repeated her swear to the gods.

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. As good as he made her feel, he didn’t know her like Margaery had. Margaery had known the right places to touch. She’d licked her neck, nipped her ear. She was playful. He tried to please her and reach different places, but they were the wrong ones. Sansa bucked back, trying to guide him to the right places, but he continued to work against her. And when he finally reached a place she liked, Margaery’s face bloomed before her. Her nails instinctively dug into the flesh against her. She cried out, which triggered him. Jon bucked his hips with one final almost painful push forward as he came inside her.

Exhausted, he fell on top of her. He muttered a name into her shoulder, the name of his wildling woman. She gave him his moment of respite. She could see Margaery resting against her, fingers playing with strands of her hair. She bit her tongue not to sob at the beauty of it.

Sansa became uncomfortable as Jon softened inside her. She wriggled her hips. Jon finally heaved himself off of her. He looked her up and down, expressing his disappointment in his eyes. His eyes always gave him a way. It was one of the few traits they shared.

“Did you…?” he didn’t finish the question.

“No. I can take care of it myself though.” She braced herself on elbows, but before she could move, Jon was back on her.  He positioned himself between her legs and left her no time to protest. Her eyes clenched shut the moment his tongue pressed against her labia.

It caught her off guard enough to let Margaery break through to the forefront of her mind. She didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. It’s Margaery’s smooth chin rubbing at the cleft between her legs as her tongue sweeps over her clit. Margaery’s fingers digging into her thighs as Sansa grips the bed sheets tighter. She can feel herself rising, soaring.

“Margaery,” she whispered. Her hips bucked without her consent. She felt teeth against her, but they don’t bite. A tongue delved deep inside of her and swirled. She remembered the last time Margaery did this, the smirk on her face as she groaned, causing Sansa’s walls to vibrate.

“Mar-“ was all she can get out as she falls apart.

Jon scooted to the far side of the bed without a word. He faced the wall and was snoring by the time Sansa regained control of her thoughts.

She tried to sleep. Forget what a failure the night had been. Her mind came back to Margaery, what they had, what she gave up for freedom. If she came close to sleep, her first dream was of the sept exploding and seeing Margaery’s blue pendant upon a pile of ashes. Sansa gathered her dress after that scampered back to her own chambers. Her wine was still sitting on the table, she noticed before the door slammed shut behind her and left her in darkness.

She dropped her dress and felt her way to the table. She forwent the goblet and drank straight from the bottle. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she drank more. Drinking had gotten her into this mess, but it was her only escape.


End file.
